We walked for ages in an urban Mojave
Hoping for the grace of shade big enough to stand in.
Both of our palms had sweat that provided no aid
as 94 degree radiation disabled any in an instant.
Even the wind seemed to have heat stroke,
blowing barely enough to move a hair on my lover’s head
So we finally struck refuge in a nation of Golden Arches
with promise of cold fans and Sprite
Preserved by frozen clumps of frozen ambrosia
Bobbing between the bubbles.
In the embrace of air conditioning,
We laughed at the welts we have from the sun
Noting the trenches between wheat coloured lands
and the lands that look more like burnt toast over my legs.
When I looked at him, I saw happiness make its mark on the corner of his eyes
And I realised
That the whole time we traveled from the sun’s stern, steady, searing gaze
Into the comfort of fans, French fries, and unlimited refills
Our hands stayed together as if Christmas came early.